isn't it obvious
by sheriarty
Summary: "British Army L9A1. Thought you'd enjoy the view of it from the opposite end." "Actually it's a Sig Sauer P226R, British Army equipment designation L106A1." "Mmm you're right I suppose it is. Excellent deduction detective." "What are you doing with the gun?" "Isn't it obvious?" one-shot. crack. gun kink.


A black hole.

He's staring straight into a black hole.

There's no control over the reflexive, automatic, _irrational_ reactions of the human body. His heart pumps faster. His chest moves up and down quickly with the contraction of his diaphragm. There's a burning warmth prickling on his skin, threatening to break out in droplets. He's almost certain his pupils are dilated.

His body may be frozen, seized with shock, but his mind is _running, _perhaps functioning even better than usual, if that were even possible because he strives to push his brain to its maximum limit at every moment. Maybe it's because his body is suddenly suspended so that his brain is able to work even better, although, it's reflexively running through the processes that are currently occurring in his body.

_amygdala hypothalamus pituitary gland adrenal gland epinephrine adrenocorticotropic hormone sympathetic nervous system tyrosine hydroxylase dopamine beta hydroxylase catecholamine synthesis adrenal cortex cortisol pnmt expression chromaffin cells splanchnic nerves adrenal medulla acetylcholine preganglionic sympathetic fibers nicotinic acetylcholine receptors cell depolarization voltage-gated calcium channels chromaffin granules exocytosis adrenaline noradrenaline_

And in that one second, it's like his eyes are a camera. Everything fades, blurred out, like tunnel vision; the one sharp point, the only thing he can focus on is the black hole staring straight at him. In that one second, he's an ordinary man; he's a slave, being controlled by his own body.

But then his brain regains control, and he controls his body again. He's no longer an ordinary man, he is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He tells himself he's not feeling fear, just a natural flight-or-fight response. His pulse is slowing to a decent pace. He's breathing normally. There's no dampness or sweat. His vision clears, he sees normally, although sharply.

_nerve terminal endings reuptake minute dilution metabolism monoamine oxidase catechol-O-methyl transferase_

His mind can process a hundred different possible plans of escape in one second and yet it isn't because his brain has identified that this is not a threat. He's almost 100% sure that he will come to no physical harm. But his mind cannot process within this second a hundred different reasons _why_, only maybe ten, or twenty, because this is Jim Moriarty holding a gun aimed at his forehead.

Another second passes.

His eyes dart from the barrel of the gun to the man holding it. The man's hair is slicked back, his Westwood suit impeccable, his arm steady, his face expressionless.

Another second passes.

Moriarty's face slowly breaks into a small grin, although really it's more of a smirk. A taunting smirk. His eyes are trained right on Sherlock's eyes.

"British Army L9A1. Thought you'd enjoy the view of it from the opposite end."

Two hundred ways to escape. Only thirty-seven different reasons _why_.

_What do you want. What are you up to. _Instead,

"Actually it's a Sig Sauer P226R, British Army equipment designation L106A1."

A pause. A beat. Inhale. Exhale.

"Mmm you're right I suppose it is. _Excellent_ deduction detective."

"What are you doing with the gun?"

"Isn't it _obvious_?"

"Not entirely. You're _obviously_ not going to use it for its designed purpose, so what are you doing. with. it."

Sherlock's face is impassive. Moriarty's empty smirk is still there, but there's a new glint in his eye.

Moriarty's finger aligns itself with the trigger.

Sherlock's mind panics, racing through five hundred escape plans and fifty-three reasons _why_. But those are irrelevant if the original assumption is wrong. He mistakenly eliminated the impossible, when it was, in fact, possible.

He can't run. The plausibility of his five hundred escape plans? There's, of course, always an exception, a possible chance. But logic tells him it's naught.

His mind had failed him. He had never, ever pictured his end to be like this. As curiously simple as this. As puzzling and illogical as this. He's not afraid, but he slowly closes his eyes.

The blackness of his vision is interrupted with a changing image. Moriarty's finger brushes the trigger, then firmly, lovingly grips the trigger. His finger pushes. The trigger is pulled.

There's no sound. It's been perhaps a millisecond too long. His eyes snap open. And again, his body freezes up in shock to the image presented in front of him, although it is for a completely different reason this time.

In the now six hundred escape plans and twenty-four possible reasons _why_, this situation was not included.

Moriarty's mouth is around the gun barrel, and though it's immediately dismissed, the idea that immediately pops into Sherlock's head is that Moriarty means to end himself.

_Obviously not. _

Moriarty sucks on the barrel suggestively and with no shame whatsoever, his gaze unwavering as Sherlock tries his best to avoid it. He notes the red tinge on Sherlock's cheeks and closes his eyes in an almost lazy manner, as if he's enjoying himself. The gun barrel slips out of his mouth. His tongue darts out to trail against the metal.

Sherlock's mind is again betrayed by his body as his thoughts turn to mush. His heart pumps faster. His chest moves up and down quickly with the contraction of his diaphragm. There's a burning warmth prickling on his skin, threatening to break out in droplets. He's almost certain his pupils are dilated.

In that second, his eyes are a camera. Everything fades, blurred out, like tunnel vision; the one sharp point, the only thing he can focus on is Moriarty's lips, his tongue, the gun. In that second, he's an ordinary man again; he's a slave, being controlled by his own body. His mind's still scrambled.

But there's a new feeling. Something completely new and unfamiliar and though he can recognize what it is, he really would rather not acknowledge it. There's a burning, almost painful, tight sensation in his lower pelvic region. His pants suddenly feel too constricting, too tight, too warm.

But his brain doesn't regain control, he still can't control his body. He's still an ordinary man, consumed with….lust - No! He tells himself he's not feeling sexual arousal. But his pulse isn't slowing down. He's still breathing quickly. There's dampness and sweat. His vision doesn't clear. His mind's still jumbled.

He snaps and nearly makes a sudden movement. It comes off as a twitch. Moriarty catches it, his smirk widening, awaiting Sherlock's decision and his next move with anticipation.

**a/n:**

Inspired by post/52850581309/omaygaat-i-saw-this-on-weheartit- i-dont-know

And you can use your imagination to picture what they do next. Sorry, I'm not good at writing gratuitous sexy times. Wow I really need practice in writing things this is embarrassing. Lemme know how I did please and thanks :-)

(can't write short things. i try but then i get caught up in the details. i like details. damn my ocd neuroticism. also not good at writing humor or crack. also profuse apologies if it doesn't sound British, unfortunately i'm an American _shhhh. _also i had to do science-y research for this see my dedication? although i could be completely wrong and messed up i used wikipedia)

interesting info i used in writing this: props/johns-pistol


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